Page 17 of The Mob Boss's Bride
"Lucky indeed." Romero's eyes linger on her a beat too long, and I feel my fingers tighten on her thigh. He's not stupid enough to actually make a move—not on my wife, not in my club—but the appreciation in his gaze still makes something primal rear up in me.
"If you'll excuse us," I say, standing and drawing Fern with me. "I need to circulate."
We move through the VIP section, stopping to speak with various associates. I introduce Fern simply as "my wife," offering no explanation for our sudden marriage. No one asks. In my world, questions can be dangerous.
I'm speaking with a supplier when I notice Fern is no longer beside me. A quick scan locates her at the bar, waiting for a drink. And beside her, leaning too close, is James Harker. Mid-level player, ambitious, hungry. And apparently suicidal, judging by the way he's smiling at my wife.
I watch, a cold fury building in my chest as he says something that makes Fern laugh. His hand comes to rest on the bar beside hers—not touching, but close enough. Too close.
"Excuse me," I murmur to the supplier, already moving before the words fully leave my mouth.
I approach silently, catching the tail end of their conversation.
"—must be difficult, being married to someone like Vale," Harker is saying, his voice pitched low and intimate. "A woman like you deserves a gentler touch."
Fern's response is cut off as I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her firmly against my side. "Harker," I acknowledge, my voice deceptively calm. "I see you've met my wife."
To his credit, he doesn't flinch, though his eyes betray a flicker of unease. "Vale. Just getting acquainted with Mrs. Vale. She was telling me about her bakery."
"Was she." The words come out flat, dangerous.
Fern glances between us, clearly sensing the tension. "Atlas, Mr. Harker was just?—"
"Leaving." I finish for her, my eyes never leaving Harker's face. "Weren't you?"
He straightens, attempting to salvage some dignity. "Of course. Mrs. Vale, a pleasure."
I wait until he's well out of earshot before turning to Fern. "What did he say to you?"
"Nothing important." She frowns slightly. "Atlas, he was just being friendly."
"Friendly." I repeat the word like it tastes foul. "Men like Harker aren't friendly with beautiful women for no reason."
"You're overreacting." She tries to pull away, but my arm tightens around her.
"Am I?" My voice drops lower, for her ears only. "He was flirting with you. In my club. In front of my associates."
"So? I didn't flirt back. I'm wearing your ring, remember?" She holds up her left hand, where my diamond catches the light. "I'm well-marked as your territory."
The word—territory—ignites something in me. Something possessive and primitive that I've been keeping on a tight leash since we arrived.
Without warning, I take her hand and pull her through the crowd toward the back of the club. She follows, confusion and irritation warring on her face.
"Atlas, what are you?—"
I push through a door marked 'Private,' tugging her into a darkened hallway that leads to my office. But we don't make it that far. As soon as the door swings shut behind us, I press her against the wall, my body caging hers.
"What exactly did you talk about with Harker?" I demand, my face inches from hers.
"Nothing! The bakery. How we met. Why are you so?—"
I cut her off with a kiss, hard and possessive, my hands gripping her wrists and pinning them beside her head. She makes a noise of surprise against my mouth, then melts into the kiss, her body arching toward mine.
When I pull back, her lips are swollen, her eyes dazed. "Atlas?—"
"Did you know every man in that room wants you?" I move my mouth to her neck, finding the spot that makes her gasp. "Every single one looked at you and thought about taking what's mine."
"That's ridiculous?—"
